


The Wheel of Time

by Rajatarangini



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2018-12-20 13:38:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11922024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rajatarangini/pseuds/Rajatarangini
Summary: "Don't go," the heart tree tells her, and Lyanna doesn't run off with the dragon prince, to save the thousands of lives that would've been lost due to their folly. But fate has a mind of its own, and what has happened before perforce happens again.





	1. Prologue

“History is a wheel, for the nature of man is fundamentally unchanging. What has happened before will perforce happen again.”

\- Archmaester Rigney

* * *

 

 

_“Don’t go,”_ the heart tree tells her, sap trickling down its carved eyes like blood.

_Don’t go, don’t go,”_ the blood-red leaves whisper, dancing in the light breeze.

She stares at the face of the heart tree, stunned and frightened. She shouldn’t be afraid; she is a Stark. She has the wolf blood in her, the blood of the First Men… this is her godswood, her heart tree.

Yet, never before has she seen the eyes etched into the bone-white wood by the Children of the Forest watch her like this. Never before have the leaves whispered to her, sounding more like a little boy than a tree that has stood there for thousands and thousands of years.

She stares into the all-knowing eyes, heart hammering madly in her chest, grappling with the choices that lay before her. She extends a trembling hand, and touches the rough trunk of the tree, and the images flash before her – men lying dead and bloodied, the river running red, flames licking at a familiar man with grey eyes… _Father!_ The cord tightening around Brandon’s neck, the hammer landing fatally into the three-headed dragon on the chestplate, the dragon prince falling, a large hulking figure crushing a babe’s skull, Ned crying, holding her unmoving hand, the rose petals spilling, dead and black—

“Stop it!” she screams, pulling her hand back from the tree, finding her cheek wet with tears, her heart racing a mile a minute at the frightening scenes she just saw… _Father, Bran, Ned…_

_“Lyanna,”_ whispers the tree. ” _Don’t go.”_

She nods at the bleeding eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've yet to complete 'The Last Wolves', and yes, I am working on it, but it's been a little tough because I've sort of lost touch with writing ASOIAF and especially JonSa, (the show hasn't made things easier).  
> This is just short something I wrote a little while ago. It's all going to be from Lyanna's POV, but it does have Jon/Sansa.


	2. Chapter 1

He takes one look at her and he knows something is wrong.

“What’s the matter?” he asks her, this beloved brother of hers. She watches his long face, that affectionate smile he smiles only for her, those dark grey eyes usually so full of mirth and laughter. She imagines the rope strangling him, his cries for father, and she cannot help but hug him.

“What happened, Lya?” Brandon looks worried. He ruffles her hair, something he used to do when she was a lot younger.

“I think Father is right,” she tells him. “I don’t think we should dawdle… Robert and me… the wedding…”

“Just yesterday you were saying you’ll never—”

“We could have a double wedding,” she cuts him off, managing a smile, “You and Lady Catelyn. Robert and me.”

“You’re so young, Lyanna. You’re just fifteen. Even Father agrees—”

“I’ve made up my mind,” she tells him stubbornly.

“Do you want to leave us all so soon, sister? Winterfell and Ben and Father and _me_?” Brandon looks uncharacteristically solemn.

_I’m doing this for you,_ she yearns to tell him, _I cannot let you die. I will not let you die for me, Bran. Neither you nor Father, nor all those men whose blood made the Trident flow red._

But she cannot tell him, of course. He wouldn’t believe her, nobody would.

She has wondered whether she imagined it all, the heart tree, its words, all that it showed her – blood and pain and tears and loss. But she knows it was all true. She is certain of it.

“I love you, brother,” she tells Brandon, snuggling in to his embrace as he kisses the top of her head.

* * *

 

They set out together, after she’s bid Benjen a teary goodbye.

“I want to come with you,” Benjen tells her. He is a big boy now, but she can hear him sniffling oh-so softly. They’ve been like twins all these years, joined at the hip, the babies of their little family. It’s so hard for her to leave him back here.

“You have to stay here,” she tells him gently. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. And we shall see each other soon again, Ben.” She hugs him fondly, her little brother, her companion in smiles and tears, fights and japes.

“Shall we?” Benjen asks her quietly.

“Of course we shall. When I am the Lady of Storm’s End, you shall come and visit me, and stay with me as long as you want. We shall play at swords in the godswood there, and go riding on our horses.”

“You’re not going, then?” Ben whispers to her, the one person who knew of the path she had meant to take… little knowing that her quest for freedom would lead the entire realm to ruin.

She shakes her head silently. The hug that Benjen gives her makes her smile all the way to the Riverlands.

* * *

 

Rhaegar doesn’t dare to waylay her, not when she’s making the journey with her father and brother.

Brandon is unusually quiet on the way.

“Are you not happy, Bran? Do you not want to marry Lady Catelyn?” She asks him.

She knows he isn’t averse to Lady Catelyn as such, but to the very idea of tying himself down in matrimony. Oh, he’s known it for quite a while. He is the heir to Winterfell, and he has been taught his duty.  But that doesn’t mean it makes things easier. Like her, her brother detests being caged. He longs for the heady scent of freedom.

“We all do our duty, Lya,” says Brandon with a little smile. “You, me… we do what we have to do. At least our betrotheds are both not too bad to look at. Any maiden would want Robert Baratheon between her legs. As for Catelyn Tully, I can’t wait to have her in my bed and…” He trails off, winking at her, as Lyanna rolls her eyes.

They’ve always been like this, Brandon and her, open with each other, no secrets between them, except the one in the godswood that she can never tell him of.

“I shall miss you, Bran,” she whispers.

“I shall miss you too, little sister.”

She’s taken aback at how his eyes seem to glisten. She knows he loves her… she is the dearest thing in the world to all three of her brothers. But it isn’t like Brandon to get so sentimental.

But she remembers how he died for her, and it makes tears prick at her own eyes.

“Bran,” she says quietly.

“Race you to the castle!” He’s gone before she can react. He cannot let her see him all teary-eyed, she knows.

But she’s ready for him. They’ve done this half a hundred times before – both of them racing on their horses, neither of them ready to give an inch as they race to victory.

“Come on!” she tells her mare, gathering the reins tighter in her hands.

She catches up with Brandon, the two of them side by side. The wind blows loud in her ears as she goes past him. The sound of his laughter, even louder than the wind, stays with her even years later.

* * *

 

“Doesn’t Lord Baratheon want to marry you in Storm’s End?” asks Lady Catelyn. _Cat,_ she’s told Lyanna to call her. “It is his home, after all, his castle.”

Lyanna shrugs. Robert was so single-mindedly set on marrying her, she thinks he would even have agreed to marry her in the godswood than in the light of the Seven.

“Are you afraid?” Lyanna asks her quietly.

“Are you?” Catelyn— _Cat_ asks her in return.

“I’m not,” Lyanna replies stoutly. The fear and apprehension she feels at her impeding nuptials with Robert are nothing compared to her fright at even imagining losing Father and Brandon.

Catelyn takes her hand in hers, soft against Lyanna’s rough one, her nails long and white, unlike Lyanna’s bitten ones.

“You can tell me,” says the red-haired girl. “We are to be sisters now, Lyanna.”

_Sisters,_ she thinks. She’s never had a sister before, only three brothers who thought the world of her. Perhaps it shall be nice to have Catelyn Tully as a good-sister. She seems kind, her smiles are genuine, and when she looks at Brandon with her blue-eyed gaze, Lyanna can see how taken Catelyn is with her oldest brother.

She wonders what would have happened if Brandon had died in the Red Keep. Would Ned have married Catelyn in his older brother’s stead like custom decried? Deep in her heart, she knows Ned would make a far better husband to Catelyn Tully than Brandon would. Perhaps that’s what Lyanna is making Catelyn sacrifice as she seeks to change the course of the future – a happier future with Ned.

“Bran shall be a good husband to you,” she tells the older girl, promising herself that she will talk to Brandon about it. “I know he shall. He is headstrong and he thinks a little too much of himself at times, but he shall keep you well.”

Catelyn smiles, a little flush in her cheeks.

“I hope Lord Baratheon shall keep you happy too, Lyanna.”

Lyanna can only nod, as she thinks of the violet-eyed prince and the freedom he promised.

* * *

 

He comes, as she had known he would. Riverrun is all aflutter, Catelyn ordering the servants, Lord Hoster half-honoured, half-wary at the sudden, unexpected arrival of Prince Rhaegar.

“Why do you think he has come here?” Brandon asks Father that night after the splendid feast Catelyn arranged in honour of the crown prince, Ned watching them quietly.

Ned looks so innocent, all wide-eyed and solemn, more like a boy than the man he knows he will become. She knows what she is making him forgo - the lordship of the North, the two little boys she had seen with him in the godswood. With sudden clarity, she remembers that one of the two boys had been red-haired; and she knows that her choices are making Ned give up a loving marriage with Catelyn too. But she thinks of his head on the pike, blood dripping down Ice's sharp blade, and she knows she is doing the right thing. She cannot bear to lose Ned. She cannot bear to lose any of her family.

 "Why has Rhaegar come here?" repeats Brandon in almost a growl. He still hasn't forgotten or forgiven the Prince for crowning her at Harrenhal, Lyanna knows.

“Robert is his cousin,” says Father quietly, looking unconvinced, though. “Mayhap he has only come to attend his cousin’s wedding, like he claims he has.”

“Robert and Prince Rhaegar were never close, Father,” says Ned. “Robert wasn’t even expecting him to attend the wedding.”

Father says nothing, only meets Brandon’s eyes with a knowing glance passing between the two.

_He has come for me!_ Lyanna wants to scream. _But I shall not go with him, Father. I will not shame our family, and I will not have both of you die for me._

“Come here,” Father calls her.

Lyanna walks to him, and Father kisses her brow lightly, a gesture he’s not made in years now. “I know you think you shall not be happy with Robert, my child. But he is the Lord of the Stormlands. You shall be the lady of Storm’s End. You shall learn to find joy in him, with time. That is how it is in highborn marriages, my Lya.”

Father strokes her hair affectionately, almost as if she were a child again, sitting with Father in Mother’s room, asking him where Mother was, not understanding that Mother was dead and never coming back, but promising her that Father was still here and going nowhere, and she was his dearest, sweetest little girl and he’d never let go of her like Mother did.

“Lyarra would’ve been proud of you, sweetling,” says Father.

Lyanna smiles. It isn’t often that their father talks of their mother. These are words she never thought to hear from Father. Oh, her father loves her, she knows… loves her enough to kill and be killed for her in a heartbeat. But she has disappointed him over the years, being more like a boy than a highborn lady, playing at swords with Ben in the godswood when she should have been learning southron arts like knitting and playing the high harp. But these words, that Mother would have been proud of her – they are high praise coming from her Father. It warms her heart that she has made him so happy, even as she is dismayed at the thought that it is merely giving her hand in marriage to a high lord is what has made him so proud. How she wants him to be proud of her for what she did at Harrenhall – the jousting, the famous Knight of the Laughing Tree!

_I was foolish,_ she thinks. She doesn’t regret it, not one bit. Howland Reed is of the North, and it was her duty to defend him and his honour. She is still proud of what she did. But what she regrets is the price of her pride and glory – catching the King’s attention as the Knight of the Laughing Tree, catching Rhaegar’s eye, for that’s what sent everything spiraling out of order, didn’t it?

_The Queen of Love and Beauty,_ she thinks wryly. It was never that; it was never for that. _He only crowned me because he wants his third head of the dragon. It was I who was a fool, tearing the seven kingdoms asunder for my freedom._

“Lyanna,” says Father softly.

Lyanna imagines how Father would have felt if she ran off with the dragon prince – his fear at finding his daughter missing, wondering restlessly about her fate, doing all he could to bring back his only daughter, being roasted alive by the Mad King while Lyanna made sweet love to the dragon prince.

“I love you, Father,” she whispers to him.

Father only kisses her brow in reply, his whiskers tickling her skin. He says nothing, but his eyes are bright and glistening. She feels like a little girl again. But not for long. She is a woman grown now, a woman to be wedded and bedded, and she shall behave like one, not like the lovesick, naïve girl she would have been if it wasn't for the heart tree and its visions.

* * *

 

“You came,” he says that night.

She had waited for him in the godswood, knowing he would come.

“I was looking forward to meeting you at the crossroads, but I heard your father and brother were accompanying you. It would have created quite the ruckus, taking you from them,” he says in his lilting voice, purple eyes dark in the moonlight, silver hair pale and bright.

“So _you_ came here,” she completes for him. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Why not?” He asks her, unperturbed. “Do you not wish to come with me, Lyanna? Do you not long for freedom, away from the chains that Robert Baratheon seeks to bind you with? Do you not want a life with me, Lyanna? Just the two of us, away from the rest of the world, making a world of our own?”

“What about your wife?” she asks him. She cannot believe how foolish she had been, thinking she would find happiness with Rhaegar. She had told Ned that she wouldn’t be happy with Robert because he would never keep to one bed. But Rhaegar… a married prince with two children… so eager to throw it all away and elope with another man’s betrothed, without giving a thought to his lawfully wedded wife, who, if the rumours were true, had almost died bringing Prince Aegon into the world.

“Elia will understand,” says Rhaegar easily.

“You will shame her!” says Lyanna angrily. “You will shame your wife, I will shame my father and brothers and Robert!”

“It is a small price to pay, my lady. Shame is a small price to pay when the realm is at stake.”

“No,” she retorts. “Our wants, our selfishness… it shall only burn the realm, Rhaegar. I shall not have it. I shall not let that happen.”

“Oh, Lyanna,” sighs Rhaegar. “You do not understand. A cold, dark, decaying end... death and sorrow and pain and misery – that is what Westeros will face. The dragon must have three heads—”

“But I shall not be the one giving you the third head,” she tells him, her voice steelier than she has ever heard. “I shall not let the kingdom burn for—”

“Lives are at stake, the whole realm is at stake here, Lyanna!” He grabs her by the shoulders. His voice is still calm and quiet, but his purple eyes are glinting in the moonlight with an eerie sort of madness, one that reminds her of King Aerys. “We must be together, we must—”

Her dagger is out in a trice, the blade at his throat. She is almost amazed that she caught a warrior prince like him unawares. But then Rhaegar always seems to be in another world when he speaks about his dragons and his prophecies. She is glad he hasn’t brought the Kingsguard along, though, or Ser Arthur would certainly have her killed before she could harm the prince.

“Let go of me,” she warns him. “Let go of me or I shall—”

“You shall do what? Kill me? You have a certain fire in you, Lyanna, for all that you’re born of ice. But you will not kill me, I know that.” He does drop his hands from her shoulders, but he doesn’t seem in the least perturbed. On the contrary, there’s a sort of admiration and awe in his gaze now.

She is quick as she draws the knife to her own throat, the blade cold against her skin. “Leave, now, or I shall kill myself. I would rather die than have the kingdom torn apart by our foolishness.”

“Lyanna—”

“No!” She digs the knife deeper, and a flash of pain sears the skin at her throat. She wonders if she’s drawn blood. “I am sorry, Rhaegar, but I cannot do this. I will not come with you. I shall do my duty and marry Robert tomorrow.”

The prince stares at her for a long, long moment, silent and unmoving. He finally sighs.

“I had thought you understood,” he says sadly, oh-so-sadly that she feels like she could burst into tears. “I thought you _would_ understand. I see now that I was mistaken. You are one of a kind, Lyanna, and you would have been…” He trails off, sorrowed and solemn.

“I will not impose myself upon you, Lyanna. I cannot force you. I wish you understood, but I see now that you will not. I can only hope your choice tonight won’t end in folly.”

“It won’t,” she tells him, thinking of all the blood and death she has prevented.

“We shall see, Lady Lyanna. We shall see," he says, purple eyes full of an acute sorrow.

She watches him, saddened yet relieved, as his silvery-haired figure disappears behind the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this was going to be a sort of medium-sized story divided into 3 chapters. But I found this written months and months ago, and I thought I might as well post this. I'll probably wrap this up in 9-10 smaller chapters now (if I do stick to my current plan, this is, which I very sadly don't often do).


	3. Chapter 2

One of the maids brushes her hair. Her hands are quick and nimble as she ties up Lyanna’s dark locks in braid, then tugs out some tendrils of hair to frame her face in what Lyanna supposes is meant to make her look pretty. Catelyn and Lysa had told her that her hair would look beautiful in a southron style. But Lyanna hadn’t wanted that. It is her last day as a Stark, and she wants to be herself – a girl of the North, a Stark of Winterfell, wearing grey and white, her hair worn in the simple manner of the women of the North unlike the complicated way Catelyn’s hair has been done up in. Oh, Catelyn’s red hair looks beautiful, but Lyanna would never have had the patience or the desire to spend that much time on doing her hair done. It _just_ isn’t like her… though she wonders if that’s yet another change she’ll have to make when she goes to Storm’s End – dress up in the way the women of the Stormlands do, wear the Baratheon colours, hear the roars of the stormy seas instead of feeling the cool tickle of the summer snowflakes caressing her face, become a Stag instead of the Wolf she is.

_It would have been worse if I had eloped with Rhaegar,_ she tells herself. _He would have sired a babe on me, and then taken us to the Red Keep as his second wife._ _I would have been Queen in a few years… one of Rhaegar’s two queens –_ (the pain she would have caused Princess Elia is another matter altogether. The mere thought of it makes her insides squirm with guilt) – _an entire life of complicated hairdos and uncomfortably rich gowns, of never going out riding without guards to protect me, trying to act like a perfect lady, and undertaking all the duties of a good queen… a life of being caged and contained and chained to the very things she had always disliked._

It is meant to make her feel better, to convince herself that she would never have been happy with Rhaegar. But a part of her only remembers his words when he found her hidden behind the trees, taking off her helm… the awe and adoration in his purple eyes, the flecks of indigo in them almost glittering in the sunlight, the intensity of his gaze, his flowery words in his lilting voice. Oh, Robert watches her too, but his eyes are blue, not purple, and the want in his eyes is for what he _thinks_ she is, the image of hers he has built in his mind, mingled with the lust and want of a teenage boy, not the silent, heady desire of the grown up man Rhaegar is.

_But there isn’t much of a difference between the two, is there?_ She asks herself. _Robert wants me because I am Ned’s sister, because he’ll be a part of my family, I suppose… have Ned become his good-brother, have the girl he thinks is so perfect as his wife… while Rhaegar wants me because he thinks I am the ice to his fire, because of the dratted prophecy… he only wants the child he wished to plant in my womb… not_ me _as a person, as a girl—as the woman that I will become._

When the maid is done dabbing colour on Lyanna’s lips, another girl laces up her wedding gown, and then fastens her maiden cloak. Lyanna cannot help but feel like she is in a daze; everything’s happening so fast.

“Smile,” Catelyn tells her, as the maids finally quit fussing over her. Lyanna stands up, and Catelyn stands next to her, the two of them reflected in the large mirror in Catelyn’s room. Lysa Tully watches them, blue eyes a battleground of joy and envy and the sorrow of parting from her sister. She is pretty, Lysa, but it is Catelyn who is the most beautiful girl in the room – her gown of blue and red, the Tully trout sewn intricately on her wedding cloak; there’s a pretty splotch of pink in her cheeks, her gown only makes her eyes look bluer, as bright as the blue summer skies in the North.

Lyanna feels rather small standing next to Catelyn, with her northern colouring unlike Catelyn’s southron one, slim and rather flat-chested whereas Catelyn is a woman grown already, grim and nervous whereas Catelyn is glowing.

“You look very beautiful, Catelyn,” Lyanna tells her. “My brother is a fortunate man.”

“Thank you,” says Catelyn. There’s a note of joy in her voice, something like eagerness that Lyanna finds is missing in her own self today. “Lord Baratheon will certainly find you very pleasing today. You are looking so beautiful!” continues Catelyn.

Lyanna smiles faintly at the compliment, a little taken aback, especially because she thinks Catelyn isn’t one to give compliments when she doesn’t mean them. Not many have called her beautiful.

_Rhaegar did,_ says a tiny voice in her mind. _Rhaegar called me beautiful and fierce and spirited, brave and kind and fiesty._ But that doesn’t matter now. She is to be married in the light of the Seven and change her grey and white cloak for a black and gold one… not get married to a dragon prince with only the old gods in the weirwoods as witness to their union.

“Lyanna,” says Catelyn. “Do not look so glum. I know you are scared. I am too,” she admits in a small voice. “But we shall be alright. It will all be well.”

Lyanna smiles at her words of the girl who is to become her good-sister in a few hours. She already feels like a sister to her, which is strange because she has only known Catelyn for a handful of days. But she has been observing the older girl. Catelyn is as good as the lady of Riverrun; Lyanna has seen how she is in charge of almost everything that goes on in the castle, how she handles the maids and the servants, the cooks and ledgers, how pleasant and ladylike she is with the guests and the lords and the ladies, how motherly she is to both her younger siblings, how she has even sewn her own maiden cloak, unlike Lyanna’s which was made lovingly by Old Nan’s old, shaking fingers.

“You shall be a good Lady of Winterfell,” Lyanna tells her sincerely. _You shall be a proper lady of the castle that I could never be, the one Father always wanted after Mother passed away,_ she thinks.

For a moment, she feels so bitter and envious – that Catelyn will get to stay in Winterfell for the rest of her life, watch her children grow up playing in the godswood, run her mare over the hills in the barrowlands, watch the steam rise over the hot pools and feel the snowflakes paint the grounds of Winterfell a gleaming white overnight, warm her hands over the fires flaming in the hearth in the study, hear the loud chatter of their men in the Great Hall, the air heavy with the scent of the delicacies of the North, hear the winds blowing loud and cold through the castle, sounding oh so mournful in the nights, but so very familiar too… feel the warmth that resides in the walls of Mother’s erstwhile room, watch the winter roses bloom in the godswood and listen to the tales of the Wall and beyond when the black brothers of the Nights Watch come visiting, hear Benjen’s hearty laughter, and Father’s deep voice as he speaks to a bright-eyed Brandon, listen to Old Nan’s scary tales, and watch Ned come alive with that one smile he always smiles when he’s surrounded by all his family.

Catelyn will get to do everything that Lyanna wants, everything Lyanna has loved and cherished and valued.

But her envy flees away as swiftly as it surfaced. She cannot ill-wish Catelyn, not when the girl seems like she’s so much better than her oldest brother deserves. Lyanna loves Brandon with all her heart, but she cannot but admit that Bran may not keep Catelyn as happy as Ned would have, if Lyanna hadn’t made the choices she made.

It may be selfish, but Lyanna is alright with it – she would rather have a Brandon who may not be faithful and kind to Catelyn than a Brandon who lies strangled and dead in the Red Keep.

Lyanna stands up. She tries to smile, but somehow she can only manage a weak one.

“What are you worried about, Lyanna? Are you not happy with this match?” Catelyn asks her again. But she seems hesitant now, as if that wasn’t the only question she meant to ask. With a look, the lady of Riverrun nods to her maids, who leave the chambers; and Lysa, too, huffing and glaring at her older sister for being sent away.

“Is this—is this because of the _Prince?”_ Catelyn asks her in almost a whisper. “I know what happened at Harrenhall. The crown of roses and the Queen of Love and Beauty—but you don’t need to worry, Lyanna. Prince Rhaegar cannot do anything to you here. This is my father’s castle, and the Starks are all his most honoured guests. Father will never let anyone harm you… not even the Prince.”

Lyanna smiles now, at the unflinching trust Catelyn has in Hoster Tully, and at how she thinks Lyanna is the innocent party in everything to do with Rhaegar.

_I was going to run away with him!_ Lyanna wants to admit to her. _Don’t think of me as the damsel in distress needing saving from the covetous crown prince. I was as much to blame as Rhaegar—I_ am _as much to blame as him for allowing things to reach the extent that they have!_

“This isn’t about the Prince, Catelyn,” she lies to her to-be good-sister. “Whatever happened at Harrenhall—that was the end of it. I am to wed Robert Baratheon today. I shall do my duty.”

Catelyn takes both her hands in hers. “That is what we all must do, Lyanna. Family, Duty, Honour – the words of my House. You are my family too now. So you can always confide in me. If you ever need a… a friend, I shall always be here,” says Catelyn gently, sounding so much older than her years, sounding so caring and motherly that Lyanna cannot help but hug the older girl, even though she’s never really been one for hugging.

“Thank you, Catelyn. If—well, if Bran ever gives you any trouble, you write to me. We both are sisters now, and I shall always look out for you,” she tells the red-haired girl.

Catelyn smiles widely, which makes Lyanna smile too. When she looks at her mirrored reflection, Lyanna finds that she’s finally smiling genuinely, one that reaches her eyes. It’s that she tries to hold on to as the maids come knocking, giggling and telling them that Ned and Edmure are here to escort their sisters to the sept.

* * *

 

“You look so beautiful, Lya,” says Ned. His eyes are bright with joy, and he smiles at her almost tenderly.

Catelyn walks a few paces in front of them, her arm on young Edmure Tully’s.

“You look like Mother… a little,” whispers Ned.

That makes Lyanna smile. She doesn’t remember much of their mother, not as much as Bran and Ned do. She only has a few hazy memories – a soft voice when Mother sung her to sleep, a wide smile, gentle hands that held Lyanna’s as they walked in the godswood.

“I will miss you, Ned,” she tells him. Of her three brothers, Ned is, sadly, the least closest to her. With all the years he spent away from them, fostered at the Eyrie with Robert, she never got to spend much time with him. But she knows Ned is a good man.

“I will miss you too, sister. But I’m certain I will come to visit you often. Now that Robert will finally move to Storm’s End with you, he will surely keep inviting me to visit you.”

“Don’t you want to go back home? To Winterfell?” she asks him. Ned is old enough now… almost a man grown, not the young boy Lord Arryn fostered.

“I want to,” says Ned softly as they walk out of the castle and towards the sept, the servants scurrying around them for last-minute preparations, large cauldrons being carried to the large hall where the wedding feast will be held. “But I am but a second son. Winterfell is Father’s home… it will be Brandon’s one day, Lady Catelyn’s and their children’s. I will need to make my own way in the world…”

There’s something about the way Ned says it, something so determined, yet he’s rather shy, something like a secret… something like—

“Do you like someone, Ned?” she asks him, suddenly curious. “Has a lovely maiden caught my dear brother’s eye?”

Ned only smiles, a faint flush in his cheeks – something she’d never have seen in Brandon. Ned is as quiet as Brandon is loud, as shy as Brandon is bold and charming.

“Is it Lady Dayne?” whispers Lyanna, delighted. “Is it Ashara Dayne? I know you liked her at Harrenhall! When you danced with her!”

Ned says nothing, but there’s a light in her eyes that makes Lyanna hope that her brother shall find happiness in the Dornish beauty… Ned deserves to. _A life as a second son of the Lord of Winterfell, but a life of happiness with the lady he wants… instead of being the Warden of the North that he would have been in another life._ She wonders if it is a good bargain for Ned, for Catelyn, Ashara Dayne, for Robert Baratheon, for everyone involved. For a moment, she is almost choking under the burden of it all – of playing with the lives and destinies of so many, of changing the course of what should have been. For a mad, mad moment she wonders whether there’s something wrong with her, with the heart tree, everything it showed her… _did I dream it up? How have I got myself into this? What if what I saw wasn’t true? How am I to hold the lives of so many people in my hands? I cannot do this… what if I fail? What if I chose wrong?_

But she remembers the blood and the destruction, the death of Father and Bran, the armies battling it out on the Trident; and she pushes her misgivings away.

They near the large sept now, the seven-sided temple that lies tall in the gardens that Catelyn said her mother Minisa Tully had loved. She can see all the crowds now, men and women from the North and the Stormlands and the Riverlands, and ones from King’s Landing too, the ones who came with Rhaegar.

“Robert shall keep you well,” whispers Ned as he leads her towards Father.

The sept smells of incense and scented candles, the large expanse of the sandstone building lit up with a rainbow of lights, the marble images of the Seven gleaming in the sunlight that filters in from the tall glass ceiling.

It makes Lyanna feel almost faint – this isn’t what she wanted, this is all so unfamiliar.

She wants the floor of the godswood under her feet, shoes squeaking as she steps on the damp soil littered with leaves and grey-green needles from the tall pines and oaks and sentinels that have stood guard over the godswood of Winterfell for years; she wants the scent of the earth and weirwood sap, the warmth of the hot pools, the scent of centuries of Starks who prayed there, whispered their secrets to the old gods.

_I must be brave,_ she thinks. _I am a Stark._

As she lets go of Ned’s arm and clasps Father’s, she cannot help but notice the gleaming white cloaks that stand at the very forefront of the assembled crowd. In between Ser Arthur and Ser Whent, there stands Rhaegar, clad in black and red, a thin gold crown nestled among the silver locks, gleaming eye-catchingly bright in the rainbow lights. His eyes are so purple, striking from even this distance, looking straight at her.

She does not know how long she stares back at him – sorrow and longing, determination and grit, loss and pain – she does not know what she is feeling. She looks away, only to see Robert standing tall and large near the septon, Catelyn and Brandon already standing there facing each other.

She stands in front of Robert, letting go of her father.

Robert is tall, oh very tall. Taller than Rhaegar, broader than even Brandon. He is clean-shaven today, and his blue eyes stare down at her bright and burning with something she cannot place – fury? Desire? Delight?

Robert takes her hand in his large one, while the septon says words Lyanna is not listening to. Father unclasps the wolf cloak that she has worn, and for a moment she feels free – oh _so_ free, a creature of her own will, belonging to none, not the daughter of the Warden of the North, not a sister to the future Lord of Winterfell, not a highborn maiden to be wedded to the Stormlord, but Lyanna… just _Lyanna._

But all too soon, Robert fastens a new cloak onto her, one with the stag of the Baratheons.

Just like that, Lyanna is given away, all her wolfishness stripped off her in the eyes of the world, wearing antlers that feel so very heavy on her head.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Lyanna hears herself saying. Her voice isn’t quivering, not at all. But the words feel like they’re being uttered by another creature altogether – a woman who isn’t the girl Lyanna is, someone who feels so very distinct from herself, “and take you for my lord and husband.”

“—One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever—”

The septon’s words feel like they’re hammering nails in her heart and mind, ringing in her ears.

Robert leans in, looming large over her, but his lips are gentle when they capture hers.

* * *

 

The wedding feast goes on well, everyone loud and cheerful and delighted, the sound of utensils and glasses and the chatter of the menfolk, the bard singing a song Lyanna has never heard before, the lords and their ladies coming to her to congratulate her, Robert introducing her to them as the Lady of Storm’s End.

Despite it all, she cannot help but feel the eyes boring into her – dark and purple and intense. He has been given the place of honour at the table, of course, because he is the crown prince. Ser Arthur and Ser Whent stand behind him, their white cloaks standing out among the sea of colours. She smiles at Catelyn, who is sitting on her other side, nibbles at her food, grins at Ned, and chuckles when Brandon’s laughs his booming laugh at something Elbert Arryn says.

But ever so often, when she glances at the Prince from the corner of her eyes, she finds his gaze unerringly upon hers. She looks away, heart hammering madly in her chest, feeling a sense of loss and sorrow that she is only now allowing herself to truly acknowledge – the shattering of all her dreams into tiny little pieces, dreams of freedom, of the prince with silver hair who swept her off her feet with his promises, with his words, with his sad eyes that shone with desire, his sad songs that had made her tear up, eyes that spoke of his hopes and his prophecies…

“You look sad,” whispers Robert in her ear, startling her. He is so close to her that she can smell the wine on his breath, feel his hair ticking her cheek. “You looked sad in the sept too. I noticed,” he whispers. “Sad, and afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” she huffs.

“Then come with me, after everyone’s done with the feast and the dancing begins.”

She stares at him, taken aback, and then gets back to picking at the food.

He grabs her hand later, weaving through the crowd, managing to slip her out of the hall unnoticed despite how noticeable he is by virtue of his height and the fact that he’s one of the two bridegrooms wed today.

“Where are we going?” she demands, as he tugs her with him, her feet taking quicker strides to match his longer ones.

He takes her to the godswood. There is nobody there now, everyone busy in the hall with the dancing.

“Why are we here?”

Robert says nothing, only takes her to the heart tree – a weirwood. It’s nothing like the one in Winterfell whose eyes had cried tears of blood red sap and showed Lyanna the course the future of Westeros would take.

“Ned told me,” says Robert, his voice is soft despite the silence, “About you.” He quiets, seemingly at a loss of words.

“Told you what?” she asks him curiously.

“He told me a lot about you over the years. And I know that… well, the ceremony in the sept. It wasn’t the one you would have wanted, is it? It didn’t seem like you. I know you keep the old gods. So… here we are…” Robert sounds almost shy now, as if he isn’t used to showing such consideration, his tone almost bordering on affectionate.

“Who comes before the gods?” Robert asks, his voice seeming to echo amidst the trees.

She is taken aback that he knows how northern weddings are, that he knows the words, that he cares enough to do this for her. It makes her feel funny – touched and pleased, something she never thought to feel tonight of all times, here of all places, with this man she never wanted.

“I do, Lyanna of House Stark,” she says, uttering the words slowly, knowing that tonight is perhaps the last time she is saying them. “A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“I do,” he says, “Robert of House Baratheon.”

She looks at the roughly carves eyes of the heart tree.

“I take this man,” she whispers, feeling strangely like she means the words, unlike the empty ones she uttered in the sept.

They kneel down at the foot of the heart tree, hands clasped.

Although they say nothing to each other on the way back to the hall, Lyanna finds that there’s comfort in the silence. She isn’t frightened anymore… except when she remembers that the bedding ceremony is to come. That makes gooseflesh erupt all over her skin, distaste and mortification pooling in her belly at the thought of what is to come.

Robert takes her hand, large and warm against her cold palm.

Everyone’s noticed their absence, of course. Brandon, most of all. He watches Robert curiously, there’s some suspicion and some anger, born out of the protectiveness she knows all her brothers feel for their only sister.

But it’s Rhaegar whose gaze she finds herself meeting amidst the hundreds of faces in the hall. His eyes watch her with sadness, with a hint of betrayal even, with unsuppressed want and desire.

 She finds Robert’s grip on her hands tightening suddenly, almost painfully.

In one swift gesture, Robert sweeps her off her feet and into his arms, carrying her.

“There shall be no bedding,” says Robert loudly, to a chorus of disappointed voices.

He walks straight to the chambers that are meant for them, for their _wedding night –_ a thought that sends such a range of emotions simmering in her belly, none of which she can separate and examine because of how surprised she is with Robert’s actions.

Robert feels huge and firm and warm as he carries her. When he looks down at her once, she sees how bright and blue and dark his eyes are.

He deposits her on the bed, and then shuts the door behind them.

“Thank you,” she tells him. “I wasn’t—well, I wasn’t looking forward to being…” she trails off, so glad that she wouldn’t be stripped in front of all the male eyes gathered in the hall. It is meant to be fun, but she dislikes the very thought of it.

Robert takes off his cloak, and then unclasps hers too.

He tips her face up towards him, large hand cupping her face.

“I saw the way he was looking at you,” Robert almost growls. “I couldn’t bear for _him_ to see you before I did—to lay his fucking hands on you—you are mine, Lyanna Baratheon. You are only mine.”

His lips claim hers almost roughly, possessively, his fingers unlacing her gown in what is certainly a much-practised gesture, hands trailing over every inch of her newly-exposed skin, her own hands seeking purchase on his broad shoulders, in his dark hair. Despite how his words chafe at her skin, at her very soul, she finds her body is very receptive to Robert’s.

He hovers over her, feeling so large over her smaller frame, whispering words so filthy that they make her blush scarlet. But despite how he takes care not to put all of his weight on her, she cannot help but feel that his arms resting on either side of her are like a cage that she cannot escape, his lips claiming hers again in a manner that suggests he will never let her go, irrespective of what she wills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reviews on the previous chapter, and thank you for reading :)


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